


Capitulation

by AceVampire



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Hair-pulling, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Pining, Scratching, Vaginal Fingering, Wet Dream, Yearning Crowley, crowley just really loves his bestie and sometimes when he's alone he can't ignore it, incubus, slight dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23181265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceVampire/pseuds/AceVampire
Summary: Crowley has an encounter with an incubus.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 180





	Capitulation

**Author's Note:**

> Hello,  
> I'm a little embarrassed to admit this took a month to complete. But the Ineffable Husbands are the only thing that reminds my brain it's capable of producing serotonin right now, so I felt compelled to write something for this fandom. Plus, I love me some pining, miserable Crowley.
> 
> Mind the tags, this story contains an element of dub-con.

He ought to have noticed.

On a different night he would have. Would have sensed it the moment he stepped through the door of his flat; felt it watching him from the shadowy corner of his bedroom.

At the very least, he would have smelled it— those things reek.

But on nights like these Crowley had stumbled home in a daze, kicked the door shut behind himself, and shuffled into the shower.

He hadn’t even been drinking. The nanny and the gardener had both been given a weekend off at the same time, by some strange luck. Crowley wasn’t completely sure there hadn’t been some miraculous intervention on brother Francis’ part to make that happen, and Crowley and Aziraphale had decided to come back to London to spend the day and look in on their respective residences.

And it was just that time spent in the company of his angel tended to leave him a moony-eyed mess, blissfully unaware of the world; head full to bursting with thoughts of hair the color of cotton and eyes like the morning sky.

So he stepped under the blistering spray and tried— though only half-heartedly— not to remember the way Aziraphale had smiled at him in the soft light of the bookshop’s backroom.

There has been something off in that smile, something different.

Crowley tells himself he’s imagining it. Pathetic, love sick fool that he is. But he would swear that, only for a moment, Aziraphale had let the mask slip. That iron-hard self-control meant kept Crowley, a demon, his adversary, at a safe distance… just in case.

But more and more recently Crowley would swear he could see tiny glimpses of something warm through all those little cracks in the angel’s armor which no amount of loyalty to Heaven could ever completely pave over.

He knows it’s impossible. Even if Heaven and Hell pissed off forever and let the two of them be, Aziraphale doesn’t want him like that. Crowley isn’t sure the angel has ever wanted anyone like that.

The thought of Aziraphale in bed with some human nobody makes something distinctly unpleasant roil in Crowley’s stomach.

What the hell did it matter? Crowley knew beneath all the fussy bow ties and speeches about _ineffability_ , Aziraphale cared for him; even if he was too afraid to show it the way Crowley wished he would— the way he wished they could. That was enough, that could be enough.

Couldn’t it?

It would have to be.

And yet Crowley knows. with absolute certainty, given half a chance he would all but throw himself at his angel. If he believed for even a moment Aziraphale would accept him, he would get on his knees and beg for it.

He sticks his face into the scalding water to banish the thought.

For all his wishing and wanting, Crowley is not delusional. He knows he can’t ever truly have the one thing he truly wants. But knowing that doesn’t stop the tingling between his legs at the thought of Aziraphale laid bare on Crowley’s graphite sheets.

“Shit,” he hisses.

His body was still that of nanny Ashtoreth. He hadn’t seen a reason to change his shape back to a more masculine one if he would be returning to the Dowling’s in less than a day, didn’t seem worth the effort. It wasn’t too noticeably different from how he usually presented, his typically straight figure had a few subtle curves where it hadn’t before.

He probably should have just banished his genitals all together, they really were nothing but trouble. But Crowley did enjoy having them from time to time, and that made the occasional thrill of unwelcome arousal worth it.

Only, it was harder not to think about Aziraphale when he was turned on. That stupid, fussy, irritating, lovely creature had in recent years become the only damned thing that could get Crowley going; and that was a problem.

Sure, the angel had always made excellent fodder for Crowley’s fantasies, but he had always been able to find stimulation elsewhere. Now there was only Aziraphale.

Crowley gives himself up for lost. He doesn’t even bother denying himself, he knows he would give in eventually. Why lie in bed for hours tossing and turning trying not to touch himself when he could just get himself off right here where the shower could wash away the mess? Then he could fall into bed and let the shame drag him into sleep.

He leans back against the far wall of the shower, the tile is icy despite how hot Crowley has made the water and he yelps at the sting of it all along his back. There is a narrow ledge at knee height and Crowley carefully lowers himself to sit on it, his legs already quaking slightly with delicious anticipation.

He rakes his long nails down his chest which his just a bit fuller than before. It wasn’t necessary to fill out his chest much to disguise himself as a nanny, he had been more focused on his normally narrow hips when he had altered his appearance. But clothes meant for women— Crowley could never understand the human’s desire to gender absolutely everything— had refused to lay properly over his flat, male-appearing chest, so he’d given himself something that almost resembled a-cups when he wore the right jacket.

Crowley pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers and gasping at the little jolt of sensation every twist brings. He grips the bud of flesh tighter and pulls hard enough to hurt. His other hand resting on his knee curls reflexively at the pain and scratches up his thigh and abdomen to grab hold of his other nipple.

He twists both as hard as he can handle and whines. He releases his chest and presses his fingers against his nipples to ease the lingering discomfort. His hands are shaking.

Crowley looks down at himself, at the new, albeit temporary, curves and softer lines of his body. On the rare occasion Crowley could get a moment to himself while on duty at the Dowling’s he would sneak out to the garden to have lunch with Aziraphale. Or, more accurately, to sit in the grass under a tree at the back of the property and watch Aziraphale enjoy his lunch while Crowley tries not to let his affection show too plainly on his face.

But sometimes, whenever the angel thought Crowley wasn’t paying attention, Crowley thought he saw Aziraphale staring at him. No, not staring exactly, more like watching. Crowley pretends now that Aziraphale was appreciating his new look, admiring the way his skirt hugged his hips just perfectly because Crowley had miracled it to fit that way.

What would it feel like to catch Aziraphale checking him out?

For all his guardedness, Aziraphale always seemed to have a kind word for Crowley. What would he say if indeed he really had been looking at Crowley like that? What would he do?

Crowley summons the image of them sitting companionably beneath the large oak, Aziraphale prattling on about something or other while Crowley basked in the warmth of his presence.

He would lean his head back against the trunk and watch the way the sun through the trees would dapple Aziraphale in flecks of light, he often let his disguise fall away when they were alone like this where no one would see them. 

Aziraphale would stop his adorable babbling about books, or tartan waistcoats, or whatever, and watch Crowley intently.

Crowley slides his palms down his stomach, scratching lightly at the inside of his spread thighs. His exhales a long, shaky breath.

“What’s wrong, angel?” Crowley would ask, concerned by Aziraphale’s sudden silence.

“Do you know how beautiful you are, my dear?”

Crowley shudders.

He would be cool, or try to be. he would brush off the compliment and suggest Aziraphale ease up on the wine they’ve been sharing.

“But you are,” Aziraphale would insist, setting his glass down and shifting to sit beside Crowley against the ancient oak’s wide trunk. “So lovely,” he would take Crowley’s face in his hands, his soft scholar’s hands, and stroke his thumbs over high cheekbones.

Even in his fantasies Crowley doesn’t know how he would respond to that.

“So lovely, so good, and all mine.”

Aziraphale would carefully— so damn carefully, as though Crowley make break or bolt— press their lips together. And Crowley swears he can feel it.

He’s getting impatient, the need growling too intense. Behind his closed eyes he sees Aziraphale laying him down in the soft grass and Crowley feels an ache deep in his gut.

It’s far too easy to imagine Aziraphale’s blunt fingers releasing the buttons of Crowley’s blouse, the tender press of lips down his neck.

Crowley’s head thunks against the shower wall.

Aziraphale would be so bloody careful, so respectful, checking with every touch that Crowley was alright. That this was— that they were— alright.

Crowley’s fantasy unwinds.

Aziraphale runs his hands up the inside of Crowley’s thighs, searching, searching…

“Fuck!” Crowley breathes as he slips his fingers between his folds, toes curling.

He can’t wait anymore.

Crowley imagines throwing his head back, neck straining as Aziraphale pleasures him, legs falling open to let his angel in.

Crowley pushes his own fingers deep inside himself and his moan is lost in the rush of the spray and the pounding in his ears.

“Angel… Aziraphale…” Crowley is gasping despite himself. Warm, damp air filling his lungs. He’s close already, wound up from his imaginings and _so damn close_. He’s too far gone now, too near his finish to slow down and focus properly on the fantasy. Instead he clings to the adoration in his day dream’s voice.

“You are splendid like this, my love.”

Crowley works his fingers faster and faster inside himself, then drags them roughly over his clit. His other hand twisting almost painfully into his hair, and leaving burning trails where he scratches down his neck.

“Absolutely breath taking. I’ve always thought so, ever since the day I met you on the wall. You are simply the most beautiful thing She ever created.”

Crowley clamps a hand over his mouth, muffling his cry as his orgasm rips through him like lightning; sudden and blinding. He continues to rub at his clit, whimpering through the aftershocks until it gets to be too much and he is left trembling and agonizingly empty.

Crowley stands on unsteady legs and cleans himself up. The familiar shame creeps over his skin and he avoids his reflection in the foggy mirror as he dries off and dresses for bed.

He lets himself indulge in the self-loathing for just a moment. Hell, if he gets to indulge in… whatever the hell that was, he ought to even the field a bit.

Aziraphale would be disgusted with him. Whether or not the angel had any interest in the carnal pleasures, he would certainly be appalled by Crowley fantasizing about him like he does. Aziraphale would be horrified at the idea that he, an angel, would ever return the affections of a demon.

Crowley will never let himself forget that. it doesn’t matter how much he wants Aziraphale, how deeply he aches for him, angels do not fall in love with demons.

He wonders, only half seriously, if this love he can’t speak of is somehow his true punishment.

Crowley falls asleep, completely oblivious to the eyes that watch him from the darkest corner of his bedroom.

~~~

Crowley writhes and whines, sinking his fingers into silky cotton curls. Strong hands grip his hips, holding him in place. Aziraphale’s tongue is relentless, sending shocks of pleasure-pain down Crowley’s legs.

_Too…_

_Too much…_

_Too much…_

_Not enough…_

_Never enough…_

_Angel!_

Crowley is close. Every muscle in his body coiling tighter and tighter. The dream dissolves around him as he slips back into wakefulness; but the sensation of a tongue against his clit doesn’t abate. It only grows stronger, more real, and he moans from somewhere deep within himself.

It dawns on him slowly that he is no longer asleep. He is in his bed, not laid out on the Dowling’s lawn, and there really is a face between his legs. Through bleary eyes Crowley looks down and the heart that keeps his corporation alive nearly stops beating.

Painfully familiar blue eyes peer up at him. Crowley yelps and scrambles back against the headboard.

“Aziraphale?” his voice is little more than a croak.

Crowley blinks hard in an effort to clear the sleep from his eyes, but Aziraphale doesn’t vanish. He must still be dreaming, he must, why else would Aziraphale be in his bed?

“What the fuck are you doing?”

The angel doesn’t respond. He is very still, cottony hair turned silver in the street light filtering through the windows. He is serene.

Aziraphale crawls forward and Crowley draws his knees up between them as he is crowded against the headboard. Aziraphale takes his chin between his fingers, staring intently at Crowley’s lips. Crowley blinks rapidly against the fog swirling at the edges of his vision. He feels as though he is under water.

“Angel, what the hell?”

Aziraphale silences him with a kiss so tender it makes Crowley’s chest ache. He can’t stop himself, he takes Aziraphale’s face in his hands and kisses him back. Does it really matter if he’s dreaming? Aziraphale is here and he is kissing Crowley, and it feels so damn good to be touching him like this.

Aziraphale pushes his tongue into Crowley mouth and Crowley groans, letting his legs fall open to let his angel settle between his thighs.

Strong fingers twist into his hair wrenching his head back as Aziraphale laves open-mouthed kisses down Crowley’s throat.

“Fuck! Angel, angel, angel… oh, fuck!”

He is panting hard, writhing, arms wrapping around Aziraphale’s shoulders; needing to get closer, closer, closer.

Aziraphale slips an arm around Crowley’s waist and bites along his bare shoulder.

Wait a moment, is he naked? Crowley is suddenly aware of the cool air of the room against his skin. He had definitely worn clothes to bed, hadn’t he?

Had Aziraphale really come into his flat unannounced, undressed him in his sleep, and put his face between Crowley legs?

Aziraphale bit down at the join of Crowley’s neck and shoulder and his entire body jerked.

 _No, this is wrong_.

Crowley fought through the haze in his mind.

Aziraphale always called before coming by. He would never have undressed Crowley without explicit permission, he just wouldn’t. And he would certainly never do _this_.

This wasn’t like him.

This wasn’t like him at all.

This wasn’t like Aziraphale because this wasn’t Aziraphale.

Crowley’s inky blood goes cold in his veins and he shoves the imposter away as hard as he can.

The faux Aziraphale looks at him with an expression of mild bemusement but no sign of hurt or confusion at being rejected.

“You’re not my angel,” he growls through bared teeth. “What are you? Who sent you?”

The creature blinks and Aziraphale’s lovely blue eyes are replaced by pools of deep crimson, glowing faintly in the dim light.

Incubus.

A snarling hiss tears itself from Crowley as scales break out across his skin, and the creature startles back a little.

A fucking incubus.

Not even a real demon, just a race of lowly nether world bottom-feeders employed by Hell.

It just sits there before Crowley, expression almost blank except for the gleam of hunger in its eyes. These things are barely sentient, they just wander up to the mortal realm when they’re hungry, attaching themselves to anyone with desire strong enough to feed off of.

Crowley winces.

How strongly must he reek of desire for this thing to have attached itself to him? And if this incubus— succubus, whatever they’re the same thing just wearing a different shape but the humans insist on gendering everything— had noticed the want pouring off Crowley, had Aziraphale noticed too? Crowley’s stomach churned at the thought.

The creature inches towards Crowley, eyes shifting back to that familiar blue.

“Don’t!”

How did this thing, this nothing little wretch, dare to touch him? Him, Crowley, a demon and it’s superior by far. And wearing the beautiful face of his angel.

It had been able to slither into Crowley’s mind because he had dropped his guard— probably in the fucking shower, damn it all— and see his every desire.

Crowley wanted to rip it apart and burn its shredded remains. And he would have, gleefully, had it not been watching him with Aziraphale’ eyes. And after all, the stupid thing was only hungry. It was desperate and meeting it’s need the only way it could. He could understand that.

The incubus’ eyes flared scarlet again and heat pooled within Crowley, and the fog that had cleared a little began to settle behind his eyes again. He pressed himself back against the headboard and swallowed the lump rising in his throat. This was how it hunted, stoking a victims need and muddying they’re mind when they were not receptive.

Crowley’s skin almost hurts with wanting to be touched, to have Aziraphale’s mouth on him again, to have his arms around him. If he couldn’t bring himself to smite this creature, he ought to at least get out of here. Miracle some clothes, get in the Bentley, and just fucking drive.

And yet…

The figure kneeling before him looks so much like his angel. It even smells like him. He knew this would be his only chance, his one chance to have what he most craves. He could, he knows he is capable of it. He’s a demon, there is no depth to which he has not already sunk. Or so he’d believed.

All he has to do is give in.

Another pang of lust twists Crowley’s insides and he slams his eyes shut, biting his lip to keep from moaning. He is absolutely soaked, dripping steadily onto the sheets. When he opens his eyes again, the incubus is naked.

_Fucking fuck, fuck, fuck!_

Crowley had forgotten how lovely Aziraphale’s body was. They had seen each other’s body’s before; the world had not always been so concerned with modesty, but it had been so long. How deeply had this thing plumbed his memory?

Crowley wants so badly to touch him.

The creature is hard. it hadn’t even needed to prepare itself. It’s eyes, as unnatural as Crowley’s own, bore into Crowley who arches against the headboard, need burning beneath his scale-dappled skin. And Crowley gives himself up for lost. If this was all he would ever have of Aziraphale, he would take it.

It senses the moment Crowley’s control breaks. Aziraphale’s strong hands grab Crowley by the ankles and drag him down to the mattress, spreading his legs wide. He can feel Aziraphale positioned at his entrance and his entire body tenses with anticipation.

Aziraphale bends over him and Crowley kisses him without reservation.

“Please,” he whispers desperately against soft lips, “please, angel.”

Aziraphale thrusts into him and Crowley throws his head back with a full-throated scream. The relief of finally being filled is overwhelming. Aziraphale doesn’t wait, he sets a punishing pace, and all Crowley can do is clutch at him; panting and arching, utterly lost to feeling of his love buried deep within him.

His orgasm takes him swiftly, crashing over him and pulling him under. He cries out helplessly and presses his face into Aziraphale’s neck, body jerking with every fluttering pulse of his release.

Aziraphale lays him back against the pillows and signs deeply, the creature taking its fill of Crowley’s satisfaction, and Crowley begins to come back to himself. Spent and still gasping, he recalls that the cock still thrusting into his over-sensitive body does not in fact belong to his angel, but a pest from the under-world wearing his face. A creature that reports back to Hell just like Crowley does.

 _Just a little longer_.

Just another few moments. He wants the memory of feeling Aziraphale coming inside him, and then he will end this.

Aziraphale is braced over him on one arm, the other gripping Crowley’s thigh to keep his legs open.

“Look at me,” Crowley breathes.

The incubus does and Crowley gazes into his angel’s lovely face as the thing sighs its release. Crowley closes his eyes, savoring the feeling of Aziraphale spilling into his body.

Is the real Aziraphale this beautiful when he comes? He must be. Crowley stashes the image of this imposter’s face away in the back of his mind and runs a hand along Aziraphale’s pale cheek; then he vaporizes the intruder before it could even pull out of Crowley.

He is left so very empty, still panting quietly in the cool air of the bedroom. He miracles himself clean and slips beneath the sheets. He needs to sleep. Tomorrow he and Aziraphale will return to the Dowling’s to continue their work of averting the apocalypse. He needs to forget about tonight, at least for now.

He can’t bring himself to regret what he’s just done. He was only fulfilling a need. Aziraphale would never know, because Crowley would never tell. He will choke on this love until the end of the world— until the end of time— if he has to.

Because angels do not fall in love with demons.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell i didn't know how to end this one?
> 
> I hope you enjoyed. As always, your comments are my writing life blood. <3


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